Loving was self-forgetfulness, pure delighting in another human being. It was her distinctive test of an emotional state, its interference with a kindly normal digestion. “We are, or rather we were, so much alike then that the portrait of either of us would have done for the other. Trenchard glanced at the document. He no longer made love to her, as there was no point. She heard it open, but as she felt unable to look round in a careless manner she pretended not to hear it. ” She was frightened—his anger always did frighten her—and in her resolve to conceal her fright she carried a queen-like dignity to what she felt even at the time was a preposterous pitch.
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